Bruises
by Radon65
Summary: "He made it down the stairs in record time, and blew out into the cold London evening, his mind so on fire with fury that he hardly noticed the other pedestrians. He took off down the street with a swift stride, not sure where he was going and not caring, as long as it was somewhere, anywhere away from Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock makes John furious - for a reason.
1. Chapter 1

**Bruises**

John Watson sat quietly and watched the scenery speed by, the soft rumble of the train engine beneath his feet blurring with the background conversation of the other passengers around him. Sherlock could have told him all of their occupations, their marital statuses, their personal issues, and their reasons for traveling. John didn't bother to look at them. He was busy just watching the dying sun lighting up the tips of the wheat in the fields and gilding the trees beyond. He didn't need anything else. He was feeling uncommonly happy.

It had been a good week.

It had been a good week, and he was so glad he'd gone to visit Harry, despite their tiffs in the past. She'd invited him over for a week and half, to help keep her from drinking and to try to mend some of the damaged bridges between them. John had been cagey - Harry had said she'd stop drinking before - but it really seemed like she was determined this time. She hadn't had a drop the entire time John had been visiting, at least as far as he knew, and instead of complaining about his lack of trust and insisting that he ought to believe her when she said something, Harry had been understanding, and had even encouraged him to smell her breath and secretly check the cupboards from time to time. She'd said she wanted to stop, really stop, and she'd wanted him there to help keep her from slipping.

They'd spent a lot of time alone together, taking long walks, and reminiscing about childhood, and they'd talked a awful lot of things over. It had been therapeutic - certainly better than his weekly sessions with Ella, and John felt closer to his sister than he had in a long time. There was a lot of bad history, but there was still a lot of love, and that was enough to hold them together, despite the wear and tear of time. Sherlock probably wouldn't give much credit to it, but it was something John knew well. Harry was trying, and John was happy to be there for her.

And the reason he was going back to Baker Street after only a week, instead of a week and a half? Harry had suddenly gotten a job interview, at a respectable firm she'd applied to a few weeks ago. The interview was hours away by train, and Harry would have to stay the night in a hotel, and possibly longer if they wanted a second one. So rather than drag John all the way up to there too, Harry had suggested that he take a break from her and just head back early. She'd be all right, she was a grown woman, and could handle a job interview without her little brother having to hover in the background. She'd kissed him on the cheek and thanked him for the visit and his help, and gone to pack up her nice things. If she got the job, she'd be even further away than she was now, but it would be worth it.

The train finally stopped at the station and John piled out with the rest of the crowd, casting a gaze at the last fingers of light on the western horizon and flagging down a cab. He was stiff from the train ride and sat gratefully in the more comfortable cab seat, stretching his legs out and arching his back. He watched the scenery for a second time out of the cab window, the much more busy and man made streets of London, not quite as pretty as the trees and fields, but with a stronger semblance of home. When they pulled up outside of the flat, and John got out and paid the driver, he was glad to be back.

He hefted his luggage bag and stepped inside, starting up the stairs. There was no greeting from Mrs. Hudson, and her light was off, so she must've either been out or making an early night of it. John didn't mind - he was tired and looking forward to a cup a tea and a little time in before he headed to bed. With any luck, Sherlock wouldn't have set the place on fire or anything, and would spare him any warped violin concertos or frantic pacing and ranting. John reached the top of the stairs and opened the door, stumbling slightly as he set his bag down and turned to shut the door behind him.

To his surprise, Sherlock was sitting quietly on the sofa, reading a large volume with the lamp on beside him.

Or at least, that was what he was doing for a split second before he raised his eyes and saw John standing in the doorway.

"John!"

Sherlock sprang up, discarding the book on the cushions as if he'd forgotten it existed. Sherlock simply stood and stared at him for a moment, scanning him, John knew, before he spoke again, more calmly, but still with a trace of surprise in his tone.

"You're back early."

"Yeah well, couldn't stay away," John said good-naturedly, tugging off his jacket and throwing it over his chair.

"You weren't supposed to be back until the sixth," Sherlock muttered, glancing down at his book and then darting his eyes over to the window. John shrugged.

"Something came up. Tell you about it later, I'm dying for a decent cup of tea. Can't get anything good on a train these days." John started to turn towards the kitchen... and then his brain caught up with the image it'd just gotten from his eyes and he turned slowly back to stare at Sherlock in no small degree of shock.

"Did you..." John squinted at his flatmate. "Did you _gain weight_?"

He certainly wasn't fat, by any stretch of the imagination - John didn't think _that_ was possible. But standing there in his shirt and jacket, Sherlock looked a bit... thicker than usual. Not terribly so - John wasn't sure if anyone else would have even noticed, but John, a doctor, who consistently paid attention to his flatmate's health and therefore weight, could definitely tell a difference. There seemed to be an extra inch added to his stomach and torso, and he looked more like a normal person instead of his standard skinniness. Sherlock glanced down at himself and shrugged.

"Possibly. Is that a problem?"

"No, no, I... um..." John was having trouble dealing with the phenomena. "That's good, really, you know I've always said you ought to eat better..." He trailed off, and then couldn't help himself. "How... how did you do that?" he asked incredulously. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Hardly important, John, I do eat on occasion without you're asking me to."

"Yeah, but... I... Never mind." John shook his head, deciding to forget the issue at present. He didn't want to embarrass Sherlock by overemphasising something that was trivial (and in this case, actually beneficial), and besides he was really too tired to worry about it. He yawned and started back for the kitchen.

"Ah, John, I meant to tell you," Sherlock said, moving catlike after him, "I was using the tea for an experiment, I'm afraid it's rather undrinkable now." John sighed.

"Oh, perfect."

"You'll have to go to Tesco's, then," Sherlock said.

John shook his head.

"I'm not going out to Tesco's _now_, it's been a day..." John looked at the door. "I'll just go downstairs and borrow some from Mrs. Hudson. I don't think she'd mind if I just took out a couple of tea packets."

"Actually, I already borrowed what she had and used it," Sherlock said. "We didn't have enough to begin with, what with you being gone for a week." John glared at him. "It was an important experiment," Sherlock defended. "I needed to measure what the various levels of aconite in Earl Grey would do if - "

"Fine, fine," John interrupted, waving a hand at Sherlock to stop talking and slouching on into the kitchen anyway. "I'll just make coffee instead, I can live with it for one evening."

"Tesco's isn't that far John," Sherlock pointed out, taking a couple of steps after him. "And there are actually a number of things you could get, if you go out." John paused with his hand on a cup. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was standing on the threshold of the kitchen, staring at him.

"Please tell me you did not destroy all of the tea just so you could get me to go to Tesco's and do the shopping when I came home."

Sherlock snorted.

"Honestly, John, pay attention. I didn't even know you were coming home this evening. I assumed Mrs. Hudson could get some tomorrow, but I didn't know you'd be back and wanting it at this hour." John had to admit he was right about that, although he still wouldn't put it past Sherlock to do something that extreme in order to make John do the shopping.

"Well, I'll go shopping tomorrow, then."

"You're not going now?"

"Sherlock, I just spent two hours on a train and twenty minutes in a taxi after a week of making sure my sister stayed sober. I'm tired. I am not going out to do shopping tonight."

"But we're out of biscuits as well!"

John grinned.

"No we're not, I keep a secret stash."

"And do you honestly think that I didn't find that?"

John paused, frowning that Sherlock once again had a point. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock's new, less slender figure.

"Is that how you did it?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"Did what?"

"Your... Never mind, I'll just have toast."

John reached for the toaster instead.

"You're not going out?" Sherlock asked again.

"No Sherlock, I am _not_ going out."

John undid the tie on the bread loaf and took out two slices. He popped them in the toaster and was digging out the coffee when Sherlock spoke suddenly from where he stood at the edge of the sitting room.

"Harry hasn't stopped drinking."

John froze. He straightened up and looked at the consulting detective, feeling a small spike of anger flare suddenly at the unexpected and intrusive words.

"What?" he asked.

"She hasn't stopped, you know. She stayed dry while you were there, but she finally couldn't take it anymore. That's why you're home early. She's drunk right now, now that you're gone." John stared at him in disbelief, confused and hurt but feeling a bit better at Sherlock's obvious stab in the dark.

"I'm home early because Harry got an interview 250 miles away and didn't want to drag me along. She's staying sober, Sherlock - "

"She's lying. She doesn't have an interview, she made that up to get you out of there so she could drink again," Sherlock interrupted. John clenched his teeth and counted to five, willing Sherlock to shut up and not believing this was happening. Why did Sherlock feel the need to bring this up? Harry was dry, Sherlock didn't know what he was talking about, and John really just wanted to relax for an hour before he went to bed.

"Sherlock, you have no idea what - "

"You came home tired, but elated. I could tell you were happy the minute you walked in the door, not just relieved that you'd finished dealing with her again, but actually happy, pleased by the visit. That means everything went well. That means Harry stayed dry while you were there and the two of you got on. You're hopeful for the future - but you're home early. Why would that be? You clearly left of your own volition, without feeling that anything was wrong, therefore you were given a reason for leaving that made sense to you and didn't include your sister going back to the bottle. What could make you leave her while still believing everything was all right? An emergency, from one of her friends, perhaps? Something she would want to deal with but wouldn't want you to suffer through? Ridiculous - no friend of hers would depend on her for anything with her alcoholism running rampant. They'd be used to the fact that she couldn't be counted on and act accordingly. They'd go to anyone else before they'd go to her. So, no friend with an emergency. It couldn't be a family emergency, because then you'd have wanted to stay.

"Someone else coming to visit suddenly, perhaps? Possible, but unlikely, for the same reasons a friend wouldn't go to her for help - no one who knew her well would want to visit without booking ahead in advance to be sure she'd make an attempt to be sober for them. So what else could pull you away? You were awfully happy, John, and a week ago you spoke at length to Harry on the phone about what a poor job she had and how you wished she would get something better. So she told you what you wanted to hear, that she'd gotten an interview, some distance away no doubt, something she wouldn't want to make you come along for. After a week of your help, she could stay dry by herself for a couple of days, especially what with an important job on the line. So you left, thrilled by her new semblance of responsibility and feeling as if you'd made progress. But she was getting you out of the house so she could drink again, because she could no longer stand it without the alcohol and having you there was a problem."

Throughout his monologue, John was slowly and steadily getting more and more irritated. What the hell was Sherlock doing? What business was it of his, John's relationship with his sister, and what right did he have to talk about Harry's problem in such a casual manner, and where the blazes did he get off making all this stuff up when he had only a tenuous grasp on the facts?

"Shut. Up."

John's anger was beginning to spike.

"To get an interview she'd have to have applied, and she hasn't been applying for jobs, John, I've gathered from your phone calls that she's been drunk enough lately to barely remember her address, let alone fill out an - "

"She applied weeks ago!" John snapped.

" - application, and weeks ago wouldn't be enough John, she'd have needed it to be months ago at the rate she's been going - "

"Dammit, Sherlock, you're not omniscient, you have no idea how she's been going!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow calmly.

"I don't always pay the closest attention to your phone calls John, but even an idiot could see how poorly she's been doing - "

John slammed his hand on the counter. Sherlock stopped talking but stood his ground, his eyes boring into John with an expression that said "you know I'm right you just won't admit it." John was finished with counting to five. Sherlock was not Harry's brother. He didn't know her like John did. Sherlock was not involved with Harry, and he had no right to accuse her of lying like that, he wasn't there for the last week talking with her and helping her through it, in fact Sherlock barely understood normal emotions on the best of days so how in _hell_ did he think he knew _anything_ about what Harry would do!?

"Sherlock," John grated out slowly. "I don't think you know what you're talking about and I don't think I'd like to keep discussing this."

"I always know what I'm talking about," Sherlock said dismissively. He pulled out his phone and held it out toward John. "She's drunk right now, call her. I'll wait."

It took every ounce of John's self control not to smash Sherlock's phone into the floor, because what was left of his voice of reason at the moment said that Sherlock's phone was expensive and extremely precious to him and that if John broke it he wouldn't be able to take it back. John swallowed hard, glaring at his flatmate and managing to respond with words instead.

"Well," he said haltingly, "who's fallen off the wagon now?"

Sherlock gave him a puzzled expression.

"What, John?"

"Because see," John continued, fighting to stay calm enough to speak, "I sort of thought that you were making an effort to _once in a while_ be _nice_ like an ordinary human being. I thought _maybe_ I was making some sort of impression on you, that you were actually trying to be _compassionate_ from time to time, and consider the fact that _other people_ happen to have emotions!"

"I am hardly an ordinary - "

"That's right, you're not! But God forbid you'd stoop to remember the rest of us, and all of our stupid concerns with politeness and other people's feelings!"

"Being polite is dull," Sherlock said dryly. He glanced down at his phone. "If you're not going to use this I might as well put it away. Although it would be best if you just called her now, John, and abandoned your idiotic illusions." He pocketed his phone, which may have saved it from being smashed, because John's self control was slipping.

"Well, apparently I'm not the influence I thought I was," John said sharply. "You clearly don't care anything about people."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Oh, did you think I was some sort of project, then? That I was supposed to look to you for moral guidance and learn about emotions because you know everything? John Watson's gift to humanity, his attempt to reform a sociopath? I think anybody can see how that would work out. _You don't even understand your own sister_!"

John almost punched him.

Almost.

But he held on for a just a second longer and then stomped out of the kitchen, brushing past Sherlock and snatching up his jacket from the chair.

"You know all I really wanted was a quiet evening with some tea and then bed. But I don't think I want to be in the same building with you right now," John hissed, throwing the jacket back on.

"Does this mean you're going to Tesco's?" Sherlock asked blithely.

John just stared at him for a split second, unable to believe the audacity of the remark, then wrenched the door open, stormed into the stairwell, and slammed the door shut again with all the force he could muster. He made it down the stairs in record time, ignoring the front door's screeching protest as he pulled it open, and blew out into the cold London evening, his mind so on fire with fury that he hardly noticed the other pedestrians. He took off down the street with a swift stride, not sure where he was going and not caring, as long as it was somewhere, _anywhere_ away from Sherlock Holmes.

Who was currently sitting back down on the sofa, picking up his book again, and muttering quietly,

"God, I thought he'd never leave."

* * *

This story is sort of an odd combination of things, but it wouldn't get out of my head. If you review, I would especially like feedback on the fight itself, and how effectively the writing for John's emotions came across. I had a bit of trouble and could do with a critique. Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

After about ten minutes of storming around the park, John stopped and sat down on a bench.

He plunged his head into his hands and clutched at the hair between his fingers, digging his nails into his palms and pulling desperately at the roots. Sherlock had no right to talk about Harry that way, absolutely no right. It wasn't even remotely his business, John's relationship with his sister, and he certainly didn't get to bring it up, on his own, without John even mentioning first that he might want to talk about it. Apparently since Sherlock could see most people's personal issues just by looking at them, he believed that any of those issues were fair game for discussion. Well, they _weren't_.

Sherlock Holmes could be a right bastard at times.

John blew out his breath in a sigh.

The main problem was that he often _was_ a right bastard - and not a wrong one.

Because the worst part of it was that somewhere, deep in his gut, he knew that Sherlock's words had actually made sense. When had Harry been well enough to fill out a job application, to update her résumé, and to get around to submitting it? He _had_ talked to her recently about his wish for her to get a good job, and Harry was good at telling people what they wanted to hear. A little trickle of fear was welling in the back of John's mind, that Sherlock might actually be right, that Harry might be drunk right now instead of on a train heading toward an interview. But what did Sherlock really know? He'd never even met Harry! He only knew about her drinking problems secondhand, from what he was able to deduce and what John told him. He didn't even pay attention to most things that didn't concern him.

He was only a genius consulting detective who made his living figuring things out about people, that was all, John thought glumly.

He couldn't possibly predict what Harry was doing...

John's hand reached in his pocket for his phone.

And then he snatched it away.

No, he told himself, no we are _not _going to do that!

Harry had been wonderful all week, and she deserved his trust. He had no right to call and check up on her like that, especially since he was only doing it because his damn flatmate had made him paranoid. What in the hell was Sherlock's problem, anyway? It was usual for Sherlock to annoy him, common for Sherlock to be blunt to the point of rudeness, but Sherlock didn't usually bring things up on purpose just to be _mean_. He manipulated people when he wanted something, and he would go out of his way to wind someone up, but he wasn't usually just plain mean. Had something gone sour with his experiment earlier, and he was taking it out on John? He hadn't seemed in a bad mood when John first came in, just surprised and a little twitchy.

...Had he taken offense at John's comment about his weight?

That seemed unlikely. Sherlock did seem to dress well when he went out, but he hardly gave a damn about personal appearance, and frequently spent time in front of John in a rumpled dressing gown, not even bothering to comb his hair. That he should be so upset by John noticing that he gained a few pounds - and not in a critical manner, saying that it was _good_, actually - seemed ridiculous. And that he would purposely harp on a sensitive subject just to get John angry in retribution seemed a little far, even for him.

John rubbed a hand down his face, his exhaustion returning while his worry simmered and his anger floated around uneasily.

Harry was dry, innocent until proven guilty, and she deserved some trust and respect after what she'd been through and all of her hard work the past week. Sherlock didn't _always_ get everything _exactly_ right, John knew that from experience, and he certainly could be wrong now. And John didn't know what was the matter with him, but it _was_ an aberration, now that he stopped to think about it.

The words still hurt, though.

And almost more painful than the comments about Harry, the blasé way in which Sherlock had treated John's personal business, and the challenge to call Harry while Sherlock waited, was the last bit of the argument, about Sherlock's humanity, and John's attempts to hone its finer points. John had really felt like he was having a positive influence on Sherlock. He didn't see him a _project_, as Sherlock had said, but he did think that Sherlock needed a push in the direction of compassion and understanding, and John had thought that he was providing it. Every so often, Sherlock would curb his tongue when he wanted to say something rude, or go at least _slightly_ out of his way to be nicer, or think about how his bluntness might affect a grieving family member, even if it was only so they wouldn't get so upset they'd stop talking to him. John had thought he'd been doing some good.

Sherlock had certainly acted like he wasn't.

But at that point, they were both angry, and maybe Sherlock wasn't being entirely accurate.

John shifted on the bench and then stood up, rubbing his hands together. It was getting awfully chilly outside, and John was only wearing the jacket that he'd originally put on in the middle of the afternoon. He hunched his shoulders and turned up his collar and thought briefly about going back, though he'd only been gone about fifteen minutes. Sherlock would no doubt make some dry remark when he came back in, about the cold outside, or John's need for sleep, and the thought made John's stomach burn with anger again. He'd go back toward the flat, but he'd stop in a coffee shop on the way and enjoy a cup of tea for half an hour. By that point, maybe he'd be calmed down enough, or at least tired enough, to ignore anything Sherlock said and with any luck they could talk about what happened in the morning like semi-reasonable adults.

John stamped his feet to warm them and walked back the way he'd come.

He was waiting for the light so he could cross the street when four shots rang out from up ahead.

ooo00ooo

John wasn't sure how he knew, maybe it was just basic probability, but he _knew_ that those shots had come from _his_ flat.

And somehow, he also knew that this time it wasn't Sherlock just shooting the walls. Maybe it was the fact that the shots had stopped at four instead of continuing through the whole round.

But he knew.

And he stopped waiting for the light.

He tore through the crowd, ignoring people's startled looks and cries, ignoring the cars that honked as he fled across streets, and ignoring the burning sensations in his legs and lungs as he sprinted forward as fast as he could. The cold air bit at his nose and throat, and he ignored that, too. He had only one goal at the moment, and that was to get to 221b and rip apart whoever was in there, shooting at... He gulped in air and forced himself to swallow. Panic was rising up his chest and he fought it down ruthlessly, gathering the control of an army surgeon even as he ran on fear-spurred feet.

He reached the doorstep and yanked open the door, pausing before he flew up the stairwell to decide if stealth might be the best option. But he could hear shouting and thumping above his head - it sounded like a fight, and that meant they'd be distracted, and he needed to hurry before the distraction was lost, so he charged up the stairs and pulled open the door, throwing himself into the room.

He almost ran into the back of the man who stood just inside the door, shouting and cursing, and, to John's surprise, wrestling furiously with Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan. He had already been handcuffed, but that didn't stop him from lunging about angrily, ignoring their shouts at him to stand down and trying to move further into the room. Lestrade and Donovan were clearly trying to push him in the opposite direction and presumably get him down the stairs, but he was easily as tall as Sherlock, and a good deal bulkier, which made handling him extremely difficult. In the meantime, Lestrade was loudly trying to inform the man of his rights over the criminal's copious and inventive curses, some of which were directed at the police officers, but most of which were currently being directed to the floor.

Where Sherlock lay, stretched out on his back, his eyes half open and his chest barely rising as he struggled unsuccessfully to breathe.

"Sherlock!"

John couldn't help it. All thoughts of trying to help subdue the criminal were banished from his mind as he caught sight of Sherlock on the floor, and he darted around the tableau in front of him and dropped to his knees beside his flatmate, bile rising in the back of his throat. _Four shots_, and if Sherlock was the only one hurt... From above John could hear the man as he continued to curse.

_"You bastard! You BASTARD! I'll kill you! I'll kill you, you hear me? You hear me, you son of a bitch?"_

But Sherlock didn't look like he was in a condition to hear anything. His eyes flittered about, unfocussed, and short, desperate, wheezing gasps lodged in his throat. His shoulders shuddered with the effort to breathe, but he wasn't making much progress. John reached down and grabbed at Sherlock's jacket, starting to tear it back so that he could get to the injuries and access them. Sherlock's hand closed on his wrist, preventing him, and Sherlock's lips moved as he fought to say something. John couldn't hear him, not over the curses and Lestrade's yells, and he wasn't even sure Sherlock had made any sound, anyway.

"Sherlock, I've got to have a look at you," he said steadily. "Let go or I'll have to make you let go."

"Uh... un..." Sherlock gasped. John tugged at Sherlock's hand on his wrist, both relieved and worried when it gave way easily. With his breathing the way it was, Sherlock probably had a punctured lung. John only hoped it wouldn't be bad enough to collapse, especially before he had time for an ambulance - had Lestrade called an ambulance yet?

"Button..." Sherlock continued raspily.

Unbutton.

He didn't want John to tear his jacket. He'd been shot and he was worried about his damn buttons?

"No," John said firmly, gripping the edges of the jacket to tear it open again. He'd rip open the shirt too, he didn't have time for...

John paused, perplexed.

Sherlock didn't seem to be bleeding.

He'd been shot at least two minutes ago, the blood should staining through his clothes by now, should be starting to pool beneath him on the floor from four different places.

But there was nothing.

"Joh...n..." Sherlock said in a strangled voice. "I... ju..."

His eyelids were fluttering shut. Regardless of the missing blood, Sherlock could barely breathe. He wasn't choking, as far as John could tell, he just seemed unable to get a decent breath of air into himself. But he couldn't have a punctured lung if he wasn't bleeding...

There were only two buttons buttoned on Sherlock's jacket. John undid them quickly, but to hell with the shirt, Sherlock was nearly starting to lose consciousness from lack of air and John needed to do something about it. He grabbed each side of Sherlock's collar and tugged the two pieces of cloth apart, the first three buttons popping off to expose Sherlock's chest. A thick black material covered him beneath the shirt.

He was wearing a bulletproof vest.

Well, that explained Sherlock's inexplicable weight gain.

John sucked in a breath as he pulled the shirt further apart and saw the sharp, smashed metal cluster of two bullets directly over Sherlock's heart. The other two were spaced further down, and to the left side, just below his ribcage, no doubt having landed there as he started to tip over, missing their intended target. It was the second pair of shots and the subsequent fall that were more to blame for his breathing problems, though the two over the chest were probably more painful. Judging by the shape of the smashed bullets and the size of their flat, he'd been shot at nearly point blank range, probably from only three or four feet away.

He wasn't bleeding out, thank God, but Sherlock had had the wind very badly knocked out of him.

The vest had to come off, and fast, to give Sherlock's lungs and diaphragm more room to expand. The pressure of its extra weight on his torso and chest, in the aftermath of the bullet shocks, was constricting enough to seriously hamper his attempts at getting his breath back. John tore the rest of the shirt open and feverishly began undoing the vest's straps, finally yanking it off to reveal a wire device and two bright red patches of angry skin scattered across Sherlock's stomach and chest. John ignored the wire - he could untape it later - and concentrated on lifting Sherlock into a sitting position, giving his breathing apparatus a better chance of working. Sherlock wheezed with the movement, his eyes coming back open, unfocussed, and John supported gently him at the shoulders, saying encouragingly,

"Come on, Sherlock, breathe."

Sherlock inhaled feebly and shakily, but his chest expanded a little as oxygen wormed its way into his lungs.

"Come on, Sherlock."

Sherlock managed a few more weak breaths, and John patiently gave him time as he sucked in air sporadically, shuddering with effort and blinking desperately in an attempt to see. John had fortunately seen no signs of internal bleeding, which was always a possiblity in cases like this, but he probed Sherlock's stomach for good measure, muttering an apology and trying not to aggravate the sensitive patch of skin too much. Sherlock growled at the intrusion, but allowed it, instead focussing on the important task of taking deeper breaths. Sherlock's breathing was becoming more even, and after another minute or two, when it was approaching normal, John looked up to ask Lestrade to help him get Sherlock on the couch.

They were alone in the flat.

Lestrade and Donovan must have somehow gotten their charge downstairs - John didn't even remember it becoming quieter in the room.

"John..." Sherlock rasped.

"Don't talk, Sherlock," John said quickly. "Just focus on breathing for a little longer, okay?"

Sherlock looked annoyed, but didn't speak again, and instead sucked in another breath. John heard footsteps coming back up the stairs, and a moment later Lestrade hurried into the room, kneeling alongside John and Sherlock.

"How's he doing?" he asked worriedly.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped in a hoarse voice. To John's relief, his breathing was almost completely back to normal.

"Help me get him on the couch, will you?" John asked Lestrade. Sherlock started to stand up as they moved to lift him, but he winced abruptly and sat back down, letting them catch him under the shoulders and help him onto the cushions. The ends of his torn shirt trailed after him as he sank back into a supine position. John looked down at him, not wanting to add to his misery, and shifting uncomfortably, knowing he was about to. Sherlock looked exhausted, which he probably was, and with the vest off and his shirt in tatters he looked skinnier then ever. John sucked in his cheeks and took the plunge.

"Sorry, Sherlock, this is going to hurt a bit," John said, placing a hand over the spot on Sherlock's chest and pressing carefully on the bone beneath with his fingers. Checking for internal bleeding had been a much more immediate concern, and he hadn't wanted to add checking the ribcage earlier, with Sherlock still trying to recover. Which unfortunately meant he had to do it now. Sherlock hissed and clenched his teeth as John's fingers moved over his sore chest, his body tensing with discomfort. John took his hand off after a few moments and frowned at the bruising that was beginning to form in place of the red.

"Hard to tell for certain," he said. "We'll want an X-ray to be sure your sternum isn't cracked, or any of your ribs." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's fine."

"Yeah, I think I'll let the X-ray be the judge," John countered. He turned to glance at Lestrade. "Now, would someone mind explaining just what was going on here?" Lestrade sighed.

"It's perfectly... simple," Sherlock began. "Marshall Owens had... shot... four different..."

"Yeah, all right, how about you just relax and let _me_ explain it, okay?" Lestrade interrupted him. "Come on, John, let's go make him some tea."

"Oh, so there _is_ actually tea in the kitchen?" John asked, as he and Lestrade stood up and headed into the next room despite Sherlock's faint huffs of protest. Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"Yes, there is actually tea in the kitchen."

"Good. I wanted some."

* * *

So that took a little longer to post than I expected - this chapter needed more tweaking than I'd thought at first, and PBS was running the entirety of Wagner's _Ring Cycle_ this week. You'd think that watching 3 - 4 and half hours of opera a night would be inspirational, but it actually just kind of makes you tired. And then you start playing _Doctor Who_ games. I've been having a _Doctor __Who_ craving lately...


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"So I take it this was some kind of sting operation?" John asked, as he filled the kettle with water and set it on to boil. Lestrade nodded.

"While you were gone, we called Sherlock in on a case of serial murders. Each of the victims had been shot dead by a bullet through the heart. After about three days, Sherlock worked out that the killer was Owens, who you saw earlier, based on his personality and his toothpaste - don't ask," Lestrade added at John's quizzical look, holding up a hand and shaking his head in resignation. John shrugged and started digging in the cupboards for the tea - he could always ask Sherlock about it later.

"But unfortunately," Lestrade continued, "he didn't have any solid, courtroom material evidence. So he essentially let Owens know that he knew it was him who was behind the shootings, set up an appointment to "blackmail" him," Lestrade made air quotes, "and _then_ called me and told me he'd done it so we'd have to go along with it." John nodded in understanding, pulling out the tea bags and finding the biscuits, which they were also not out of.

"Of course he did."

"So we set up in Sherlock's room, gave him a vest and a wire and waited for Owens to show up. Only then you walked in, completely unexpected and unprepared. I told Sherlock to get rid of you."

John took out a plate and dumped the biscuits onto it.

"And Sherlock couldn't just explain to me what was going on because...?" Lestrade crossed his arms and gave John a pointed look.

"Because then you'd have argued."

"Oh, come on," John protested. Lestrade shook his head.

"You'd have argued. You've have wanted to stay to make sure he was all right, and you'd have argued and we didn't have time for that. You could have come back in the bedroom with us, but we didn't have a spare vest for you, and I imagine it'll be a cold day in Hell when I can get you to just stand in a corner while everybody else rushes out after an armed maniac." John shifted uncomfortably and took down the sugar. Lestrade leaned in a little closer, his voice growing serious.

"Owens is a complete psychopath, one hundred percent dangerous. The only reason he didn't shoot at us when we came out was because he was so busy yelling at Sherlock he didn't notice us until we were almost on top of him."

"And you just let Sherlock sit out there alone with him," John said, anger flaring up again. Lestrade held up his hands.

"I told you, it was his idea. Besides, we knew all the victims were specifically shot in the heart, so if he did end up shooting the vest would do its job." Lestrade paused. "All of the other victims were only shot once, but Sherlock, uh, you know... pissed him off."

"Yeah, I can imagine," John said dryly, taking three cups out of the cupboard.

"And Owens was perfectly happy to empty four bullets into him. With a man like that, we weren't going to let you be involved in any way without a vest on."

The kettle whistled. John poured water into the cups and set the tea to steep.

"So Sherlock tried to get me to go to Tesco's," John muttered.

"Yes, and we all saw how well that worked out," Lestrade said with a grin.

"And when that failed he decided the quickest way to get me out would be to piss me off." Recalling the conversation, John placed a bit more heat on the words than intended. Lestrade gave him a pained look.

"Yeah, well..." Lestrade scrubbed a hand down the back of his neck. "That was his decision, not mine, but he _was_ at least trying to protect you, John..."

John stared at Lestrade, sudden realisation making his eyes widen in horror.

"Oh, god. You heard that. You heard all of that." He pressed a hand against his forehead. "That was... that was sort of... private stuff..."

"Uh, yeah, sorry." Lestrade looked at the floor. "I can promise you that won't go outside this flat, you know, your sister and all, and, well, sorry." John glanced up.

"What about...?" He gestured vaguely outside the kitchen.

"Sally knows how to be discreet," Lestrade said firmly. "Besides, she likes you well enough, she's not going to go blurting your secrets out all over town."

"God." John sighed and began measuring out sugar into one of the cups. "Sugar in your tea?" he asked Lestrade.

"Oh, thanks," Lestrade said, taking one of the biscuits off the plate.

"Don't eat too many of those, they're for Sherlock," John said, stirring the tea with a spoon. "He'll want some paracetamol after that, and I don't know how much he's eaten lately - probably nothing knowing him."

"Yeah, probably," Lestrade agreed, crunching on the biscuit. "You know, the team's been taking bets on what might happen without you around." John raised his eyebrows in surprise, then laughed.

"Oh. Well. Okay." The spoon clanked sharply on the edge of the cup as John knocked drops of tea off of it. Tossing it into the sink, he put the biscuit plate on his elbow and picked up two of the cups. Lestrade snagged his own tea and the two of them headed back out into the sitting room.

Sherlock was sitting mostly upright on the sofa, his body slumped back against the cushions and a grimace of pain on his face. He had re-buttoned his jacket to ward off the faint vestiges of autumn chill in the room, and the torn threads of his shirt stuck out bizarrely between the smooth edges of the black material. The wire device had been flung on the floor - it lay in a twisted heap beside the discarded vest. He glanced up as John and Lestrade entered the room, his eyelids raising wearily from their previously closed position, and his head turning laboriously in their direction. He tried to straighten up a bit, wincing.

"Here." John dropped the plate of biscuits on the detective's lap and pushed a cup of tea into his hand. "Eat those. I'll go get you the paracetamol." Sherlock stared at the biscuits for a second or two as John disappeared again, then picked one up and started to eat it, chewing mechanically.

"Well? You explained everything then, did you?" he asked Lestrade, blowing on his tea to cool it. "To his satisfaction?"

"Yes, yes, I gave all the details," Lestrade said, rolling his eyes.

"Good."

"Here we are, then." John came back into the room and handed Sherlock a couple of pills - Sherlock tossed them back with the tea and picked up another biscuit.

"Thank you."

"Yeah, don't mention it," John sighed, stepping across the room. Sherlock sipped his tea and watched John through narrowed eyes as he flopped down in his armchair. Lestrade looked between the two of them.

"Right well, I'd better get back to the Yard. Donovan's handling things - "

"Oh, that's going well, I'm sure," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes.

" - but as senior officer I should get down there." He drank his tea, then got his coat out of Sherlock's bedroom and picked up the vest and the wire from the floor. "We can get your statement tomorrow," he said to Sherlock. "Rest up a bit, will you?"

"Yes, yes." Sherlock waved a hand impatiently. Lestrade looked at John, shrugged, and headed out the door.

When his footsteps on the stairs had faded and the front door slammed, Sherlock set his tea down on the coffee table and looked at John intently.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, picking up his teacup.

"It's all right, I guess," he said wearily. "But couldn't you have picked something else to talk about in front of the police?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated. "I didn't want to violate your privacy - not good, I know. But I had to get you out of here. Owens was due in ten minutes, and I'd already wasted time trying to get you to go to Tesco's. I picked the most relevant subject that would anger you the quickest."

"You couldn't just tell me." But it was more of a statement than a question.

"If I'd told you what was going on we'd have never been rid of you."

"Yeah, probably," John admitted, laughing a little. Sherlock flashed him a quick smile.

"If you'd come earlier I'd have wanted you around. There was no time to outfit you with a vest, that was all." John smiled back at him, the compliment cheering him up. Sherlock usually trusted him in him dangerous situations, as well he should, and John would have felt worse than he did when he was angry if Sherlock had sent him away simply because he thought John couldn't handle the situation. The detective crunched down another biscuit, enjoying his snack now that some of the tension had left the room. John frowned.

"How long has it been since you've last eaten?"

"Three days." Sherlock sipped his tea as John gave a long-suffering sigh. "I had a case," Sherlock defended.

"But you solved it. You couldn't have eaten something once you figured out who was behind it?" Sherlock waved that suggestion away.

"I wasn't hungry. Too much adrenalin."

"Right." John looked at him across the room and shifted in his armchair.

"Look, that stuff I said about you earlier, about you not caring about people and..."

"It's true, John. I don't care."

"Yes, you do."

Sherlock glanced at him warily and shook his head.

"Not like you do, John. What you said was true. I'm not nice or compassionate or polite." The corners of his lips quirked up in a smile. "And I'm certainly not ordinary."

"Well, I'll give you the last two," John said, scratching his forehead. He looked at Sherlock again. "And, I mean, I don't think of you as a _project_ if you really think that..."

"I was trying to make you angry," Sherlock said, finishing his tea. "I was just thinking of the worst things I could realistically say to you."

"But you don't really feel that?" John persisted. "I... I do try to get you to be... you know, less rude and, more, well... approachable, but..." Sherlock shrugged.

"I imagine if I was just a project you wouldn't have been quite so upset when you thought I'd been shot."

John was silent.

"Well..." he managed. "Well, you were shot."

"Mm, technically, yes. But no blood." Sherlock glanced down his ruined shirt. "You destroyed my shirt."

"You weren't breathing," John shot back. "Just be glad I didn't rip open the jacket too, I had more than enough cause." Sherlock tucked the edges of his jacket closer.

"Thank you. It wasn't pleasant, not breathing." John smiled.

"You're welcome." John sipped his tea and glanced out the window. "And... You. For trying to, um... You know, thanks."

Sherlock nodded once.

John finished his tea and stood up, crossing the distance between them. "We should get you to A&E soon," he said, pushing the jacket back to take another look at the livid bruises still forming on Sherlock's chest. "I want that X-ray." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't argue. "I'll get you a new shirt." John straightened up and took a step toward Sherlock's bedroom.

"John." Sherlock was looking at the floor, fiddling with the end of his jacket between his fingers. John stopped.

"Yes?" Sherlock rolled his lips in and pressed them together.

"What I said was true, too," he said quietly. John frowned.

"What did you say that was true?" he asked. "That...?"

"What I said about Harry," Sherlock said bleakly, glancing up at John. "I said it cruelly, to upset you, but I honestly think it's what happened. I could be wrong, but the probability is low." John stepped back, tensing. Despite the apologies, after the brutal argument of earlier, he felt the violation of the delicate subject keenly. "I'm not trying to upset you," Sherlock said quickly. "But I have to tell you what I think is true." John pursed his lips and counted to five, then nodded.

"Well, if it is true I'll just have to deal with it."

Sherlock said something so quietly John couldn't make it out.

"What?"

"I said I could help. You deal with it." Sherlock swallowed hard but looked back at him steadily. John felt the anger suddenly evaporate and a warm glow take up residence in its place. He smiled.

"That's... that's really nice, Sherlock."

"I'm not usually nice." Sherlock looked at his empty teacup. "It must be your influence on me." John grinned and settled a hand very briefly on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock glanced up sharply at the touch, but John had already let go.

"I'll go get you a shirt," he said, and walked off to the bedroom.

* * *

Sorry about the lateness of this update - going to France + writer's block really plays havoc with fan fiction stories. To make up for the long wait and the subsequent shortness of this chapter, the last chapter will be posted soon - aka in two days.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Sherlock? How's your chest feeling this morning?"

"It's fine," Sherlock said impatiently from the kitchen. He was bent over his microscope, his shoulders hunched as he examined a slide containing something John probably didn't care to know about. John tied the strings of his dressing gown together and stepped into the kitchen to make breakfast, taking in his flatmate's appearance with a critical eye. Sherlock didn't look disheveled, per se, but he was definitely wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and he held himself with an air of staving off weariness that John was coming to recognise. Besides, he had been up before John had awoken.

"You didn't sleep at all last night, did you?" John asked. "You've been up since yesterday morning, and you don't even have a case."

"These samples are very interesting," Sherlock answered. "And they could be very helpful in future cases involving metal poisoning."

"Oh yes, that happens a lot," John said, getting himself a plate out of the cupboard.

"More than you'd think," Sherlock asserted, reaching for another slide.

"You should be resting more," John admonished, resisting the impulse to snatch the slide away as Sherlock pushed out the one he was looking at and inserted the new. "It's only been three days."

"They're just bruises."

"Bruised _bone_."

The X-rays had come back negative for any cracks or breaks, but Sherlock's sternum and one of his ribs were badly bruised. He was advised simply to take pain medication when needed, and to rest well over the next couple of weeks to give his body the time and energy it needed to heal. That did not include staying up all night peering into a microscope. John sighed and put the kettle on. He was going to have to be more forceful.

"Well take a nap when you get done, will you? And how are you feeling, really? When did you last take any paracetamol? Hang on, have you eaten anything since dinner?"

Sherlock was sketching something on a notepad, adjusting the microscope's depth of focus and ignoring John's questions.

"I said - "

"It's fine, I took some paracetamol at midnight, and yes, I had a piece of toast at 2:00 in the morning."

"Well that's not much if you were up all night. Have some breakfast with me and then you can take a couple more pills or you're going to start hurting soon. Are you almost done?"

"Give me another hour."

"Another _hour_? Sherlock, we're _leaving_ in five! And you need some sleep!"

"I can sleep on the train."

"No. Bed. I don't want you meeting Harry half dead and with a stiff neck."

"Pff, as if she'll notice." John froze in the act of putting bread in the toaster, the offhand remark cutting him sharply. He didn't say anything. After a moment, Sherlock's hand stilled over the notepad, and he slowly raised his head from the microscope for the first time. "Oh," he said quietly. "Not good."

"Yeah, not good," John said stiffly, not looking at him.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock offered. "I didn't think of the effect that would have on you." John took a deep breath.

"Okay," he said. "It's okay. Just finish up and then have something to eat, all right?" Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, then went back to his slide, scribbling more quickly. John waited another moment, then dropped the second slice of bread in the toaster and pulled out a frying pan. He sucked his cheeks in and blew out his breath slowly. He shouldn't be hurt, the comment wasn't meant to hurt, it was just Sherlock forgetting about people's feelings again was all. He had just said as much, and even apologized. Besides, the fact that he was coming with John should be enough on its own - especially as he really ought to be staying back at Baker Street to rest.

Soon after Lestrade had left the night that Sherlock had been shot, they had gone to A&E and gotten the X-ray done. After the results came back, they'd returned to the flat, and, as Sherlock had been tired and hungry after the conclusion of a case, they'd ordered Chinese in and gone to bed soon after. Nothing else particular had happened that evening, and nothing else had happened the next morning when they'd gone down to Scotland Yard for Sherlock to give his statement and learn more about Owens' fate (the evidence from his recorded conversation with Sherlock would be more than enough to convict him of four separate murders). It was after they'd finished at the police station and made their way back to the flat, that Harry had called.

Sobbing.

She was sorry, she was so sorry, but she'd made it all up, the interview, she hadn't gotten a thing, she hadn't been applying anywhere for weeks, she'd only said it to get John out of the house so she could drink again because she just hadn't been able to _stand_ it anymore... But she'd woken up that morning with a hangover and realized how stupid she'd been, and that she still wanted to stop, and that she still needed John's help and that even if he didn't want to help her anymore, she owed it him to tell him what she'd done, anyway. She'd spent all day getting up the courage to call him, and finally she'd just snatched up the phone and dialed. But she was sorry, she was _so sorry_...!

And John had listened to her tears and sobs as she apologised to him over and over, and ran a hand down his face as Sherlock disappeared quietly into his room, probably as much to get away from the situation as to give John privacy. John had trudged up the stairs to his own room, trying to get a word in edgewise as Harry cried and cried and said she was sure he'd hate her now, she was an awful liar and John couldn't forgive her... But to John's surprise, he didn't react with the feelings of fury and betrayal that he might have expected from himself.

He was angry, a bit, and certainly upset that his sister had lied to him, but somehow Sherlock's forewarning of the situation, however repugnant it had been at the time, had prepared him for this, like a terminal cancer diagnosis prepared a family to grieve. And in spite of Harry's deception, the fact that she had taken it upon herself to call him and confess actually made John feel _good_. It meant that she _really_ did want to quit drinking, if she was willing to admit things to him and still ask for his help, and that she cared enough about him to be honest - even though it was harder - instead of simply continuing to lie.

It meant that Sherlock had been right about her actions, but wrong about her character.

So John had remonstrated only as much as he felt was due, and told her that it was okay, that he didn't hate her, it was all right, she could stop crying, he'd actually sort of suspected something like this, anyway. He'd already suspected...? Harry had laughed at herself through her tears and said that John knew her too well, which had led John to explain that it was actually Sherlock who'd told him, which pissed Harry off for about thirty seconds until John explained how Sherlock had come to the conclusion. Which both calmed and amazed Harry - _that's even better than the stuff on the blog! _- and which finally led to her expressing a hiccuping interest in meeting him.

When John had finished talking to her, an hour later, he'd come downstairs to find Sherlock installed on the couch, flat on his back and reading a flimsy volume about 18th century serial killers. He'd looked up as John entered the space, and set his book aside, saying nothing. John had shifted his stance and crossed his arms and finally said,

"You know, you can't _entirely_ say I told you so."

Sherlock shrugged from his position on the cushions.

"No."

"She did call me and tell me."

Sherlock sat up, wincing, his usual reaction to moving his torso since the night before, and looked at John steadily.

"Yes, she did. I was just a bit wrong."

John blinked at him.

Sherlock glanced up at the ceiling thoughtfully.

"She called you before you called her. She admitted lying to you of her own volition. And, I assume, asked you for forgiveness and your continued support." He raised an eyebrow for confirmation. John nodded.

"Yeah, she did."

"That means that she cares very much about what you think of her, and that she definitely does want to end her alcohol addiction." Sherlock steepled his fingers against his lips. "She's close."

"Um, yeah, that's what I thought, too," John agreed, a little surprised by Sherlock's analysis - he was actually admitting that he'd been somewhat wrong about Harry's integrity. He'd never said it outright, but it was clear that he had fully expected John to find out about her relapse through John's actions rather than hers. John wandered over to his armchair and sat down.

"She wants to meet you."

"Does she?"

"Yes."

"Hm. All right."

"All right?" John asked in surprise. Sherlock ignored his confusion.

"You're going back." It wasn't really a question, but John answered it anyway.

"This weekend," he confirmed. "I've still got vacation, but she insisted on giving me a bit of a break. I didn't really want to jump back on a train this afternoon, anyway. What do you mean by 'all right?'"

"Hm." Sherlock gave no answer to the question and was no longer looking at him - he appeared to have turned his thoughts inward. John gave up.

"Okay. Anyway, sorry I won't be here again," John said, reaching for his laptop. "But while I'm gone, I expect you to eat and sleep regularly, okay? Even if you get a case, you need some time to recuperate." Sherlock continued to ignore him, and John sighed, settling the computer on his lap. He'd have to recruit Mrs. Hudson to make sure Sherlock took better than usual care of himself...

"John," Sherlock said suddenly, "Would you like me to go with you?"

John paused in the act of reaching forward to raise his laptop's screen, attempting to process what Sherlock had just said.

"Sorry, what?"

"Would you like me to go with you," Sherlock repeated slowly, accentuating the consonants of each word.

"With... with me? To Harry's?" John asked blankly.

"Yes, that was the general idea," Sherlock said impatiently, becoming annoyed with John's slow speed on the uptake.

"Why, uh... Why would you want to...?" John trailed off, looking at his flatmate questioningly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Of course I don't want to. But I thought you might like it." He settled deeper into the back of the couch, seeming to steel himself. "I said I could help you - this is me helping." John licked his lips.

"Sherlock, you don't have to - "

"I said I could help," Sherlock repeated. "And I also said that your sister is close, very close to ending her addiction. She needs all the help she can get. And I have some experience in the field of addictive substances," he added baldly. John pursed his lips, not wanting to pursue the subject of the last sentence. There were still nicotine patches strewn around the flat in various odd places, but he had never yet seen a hint of anything Mycroft had told him to beware of on a "danger night." He hoped it was because no hint existed, but Sherlock was very reclusive about the whole business, and refused to speak plainly about it. The fact that he had brought the matter up on his own was unprecedented. So John didn't push it.

"Yes," he said neutrally.

"And you," Sherlock added. "You could use some help, too."

"Yes," John said again, thoroughly agreeing with him.

"So. Would you like me along?"

John paused, though he knew his answer already. Harry's alcoholism was something of a private business, and he honestly wasn't too keen on Sherlock seeing all that her drying out entailed. But Sherlock could read the details of it anyway, from John's face and clothes and attitude, and it wasn't as if he didn't already know what fighting an addiction meant for someone to begin with. John could stomach having him there to see everything.

_Because Sherlock was offering to help._

That warmed John clear through.

Because Sherlock was trying to give of himself, he was trying to help John and not because the situation affected him, but simply because it affected his _friend_. He was offering support and understanding and aid. This was something that Sherlock did not do lightly, and coming from him it was downright magnanimous. He was, very quietly, showing a depth of friendship that John had not even been sure Sherlock had felt between them. Sherlock _cared_. And John couldn't say no to that.

"Yes," John said firmly. "Yes, I would." He would have to call Harry and ask her to be sure, but at this point he didn't think she'd say no to extra help.

"Fine." Sherlock picked his book back up and flopped down again, grimacing. John frowned, suddenly uncertain of his decision.

"But you should rest..."

"Oh, just buy the train tickets," Sherlock snapped, lowering his book so that it almost touched his nose and tilting it to take John out of his field of vision.

And that was that.

Sherlock's pencil had stopped scribbling by the time John had finished making breakfast, and he sat down opposite his flatmate with his plate as John settled into his armchair, the kitchen table being too full of microscope, papers, and slides to eat at. Sherlock ate hungrily, which John was glad of, and soon reached the piece of Mrs. Hudson's pie that John had added to both of their breakfasts. John had found out, quickly enough, that Mrs. Hudson had been absent from Baker Street the night he came home by design, as Sherlock hadn't wanted her anywhere around a crazed serial killer. Of course, he had merely _told_ her that they were going to being having a sting operation in the flat, and that she should spend a couple of hours that evening shopping for her safety and so as not to get in the way.

But then, as Sherlock had pointed out, Mrs. Hudson had obeyed this instruction without question, and had only expressed worry and asked him to be careful before she left.

When she had learned the next morning that her favourite tenant had gotten his bones bruised from being shot at point blank range, she had been supremely sympathetic and concerned and keen to make the situation better in any way she could. Which, from her point of view, involved making lots of food and dropping in three times a day to ask how Sherlock was doing. Sherlock tolerated these visits fairly well, his slight annoyance at the numerous interruptions trumped by his indulgent affection for Mrs. Hudson and his enjoyment of the food and attention. He scraped up the last bits of her pie crust and took two paracetamol with the rest of the morning tea John had made.

"Okay," John said, finishing his own breakfast and snatching up Sherlock's plate. "Go take a nap. Did you pack yet?"

"Some," Sherlock said tiredly, standing up and wincing again as he started toward his bedroom. John bit the inside of his lip. He really oughtn't to spend two hours on a train...

"Sherlock," he said, and the detective paused at the door of his room, "Are you sure you want to come? I mean, it's probably going to aggravate your bruises, it might be better if you just stayed here..." Sherlock shook his head.

"No, John. I said I'd come."

"But - "

"John."

Sherlock turned and looked back at him.

"I want to do something nice. Even though I'm not an ordinary human being." He cracked a small smile, and there wasn't a trace of hurt or malice in his echo of John's words. "Let me," he said simply.

He went into his bedroom and shut the door.

John picked up Sherlock's teacup and added it to the pile of dirty dishes in his hands. He smiled.

"Okay, then."

**The End**

* * *

Posted a bit later than planned - I had a heck of a time refining the paragraphs where John thinks about Sherlock's offer. Anyway, that's all I have for this story. I had a lot of fun with it, so I guess I'd better write something else... Please review and let me know if you enjoyed. Thank you. Cheers.


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